


cloyingly sweet

by howverypeculiar



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, how was this 1k lololol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-27 23:16:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10056275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howverypeculiar/pseuds/howverypeculiar
Summary: tiny lil thing i wrote for pancake day. you will get cavities reading.





	

John’s eyelashes threaten not to comply with his eyelids as they open on that bright February morning. Glued by sleep, they are prised open nonetheless. His mouth tastes a bit sour - he and Sherlock did share a few whiskeys last night, he seems to remember. Oddly, as John extends a stiff arm to the warm, slumbering orb that is his partner, he finds that the crisp sheets are cool, empty and crumpled. Sherlock is out of bed before him, for once.

John guesses that Sherlock got up at some unearthly hour after having a mid-reverie epiphany about something chemistry-related, and dived to work at that very moment so as not to forget it. But this morning feels different.

There is sound coming from the kitchen. And, after a few seconds of coming to, since sleep stunts his senses, he notices smells. Not unpleasant smells, like formaldehyde or sulphur. Nice smells. Of cooking.

Cooking? That word and Sherlock usually don’t connote one another. Not at this time in the morning. Truth be told, Sherlock isn’t all that domestically challenged (John remembers a beautiful oossobucco once, as well as a moussaka…), and it isn’t extremely early. He writhes around in the seemingly massive bed for a few moments, stretching his tense body free, then, donning Sherlock’s spare burgundy dressing gown that John has since inherited, decides to see what all the fuss is.

As he slowly ambles, still limited by just having awoken, the sounds become clearer. There is slow, quiet sizzling and sputtering, which in itself is tempting. Then John catches a waft of buttery, warm, moist air. It immediately reminds him of his childhood.

He reaches the kitchen, where lo and behold, Sherlock is standing over the hob, watching a frying pan like a hawk as curls of thick steam dance around his frame. One thing that isn’t abnormal is the cafetière of very strong, very black coffee situated on the back ring.

“Wow.”

Perhaps this isn’t the best first statement to use, but it is the first that came to mind. Sherlock flicks his head to the side to meet John’s eyes. With surprise and happiness, he exclaims;

“Oh. Hello!”

John, coming closer to observe the contents of the pan, and the large mixing bowl next to it, finds himself by default sliding his fingers into Sherlock’s. Either one of their bodies are touching the other, feeling their form and warmth. John is now mirroring Sherlock’s image, both of their backs hunched over the pan (which seemed to have a transfixing quality). John realises that in the pan is a large, flat, yellow pancake. He even forgets to ask why. He doesn’t forget, however, to initiate the customary morning kiss. It’s a brief, closed-mouth peck on the lips. Now he can talk.

“Um…so this is…new?”

“It’s Shrove Tuesday, John.”

“I thought you were some sort of atheist anti-Christ.”

“How lovely.” The two men giggle at each other, looking into each other’s countenances.

“My mum used to do this every year. Seems only right to carry on the tradition.”

John thinks this all this is rather sweet. In the bowl is a thin, greyish batter which is dripping slowly from the lip. On the limited workspace Sherlock has (the table is completely unusable, occupied by toes), there are scattered bits of flour here, splashes of milk there. “You’d better tidy this up yourself, love.”

John diverts his attention to the bittersweet-smelling cafetière on the stove. He reaches for a mug from the cupboard (struggling all the while - Sherlock is not going to move) and pours a thin stream of coffee into it. He sips it, and sits on a kitchen chair - staying well away from the toe experiment.

“This is nice. Am I supposed to just sit here, or-“

Sherlock butts in with a firm “Yes, John.” John thinks it’s probably safe not to talk.

Sherlock carefully lifts an edge of the pancake that is curling up at the sides, then slides a spatula quickly under it. Giving it a shake, he flips the pancake and it plops back into the pan with an airy flop, followed by continued simmering.

Soon, he repeats the process, but this time onto a plate. With a face of pride and smugness, he hands the plate to John, along with a sticky, half-empty bottle of golden syrup. Both John and Sherlock know that it’s a good idea to go through to the living room as it is rather more convenient to eat off one’s knee than in the kitchen-stroke-labroratory.

John rests in his chair that has moulded to his figure, holding precariously a cup of coffee in one hand and a pancake on a plate in another - the syrup bottle is situated underneath his arm but he has no choice but to hold it as loosely as possible - stickiness on Sherlock’s dressing gown could cost him his relationship.

He sits, lays out all of his provisions, then drizzles the viscous amber onto the plate. Soon after, Sherlock sits in the supple leather chair facing his, also with a plate and mug.

“Catch.” John nods as if it’s a warning, then swings the bottle to his partner. Of course, Sherlock retrieves it neatly in one hand.

“Thank you.”

He concentrates hard on the task of putting syrup onto his pancake. John can’t help but watch and find it adorable. He realises that he’s got a pancake too.

His method is to roll it up then cut it off in slices. Sherlock obviously notices, and lets out an “Ah…a roller? Should look into the psychology behind the presentation of a pancake. I’d fold, personally, but…you know…to each their own.”

John snickers. To be honest, he knows that taking the piss is always Sherlock’s forte. He loves and hates it in equal measures.

John cuts a slice and puts it in his mouth. The squishy-sweet ribbons unfurl around his tongue and the warm, spicy sweetness spreads through his mouth and into his veins. Then, as if he didn't feel it before, he realises he is _very _hung-over.__


End file.
